Return
by NoPitSoDeep
Summary: Post-Riechenbauch. Sherlock is dead. John is alone. Slash, eventually. Much fluff, too. Lots of it. T for...well, yeah. Eventual slash. FIXED IT NOW IT MAKES SENSE, SORRY. These are Mofatt and Gatiss' toys, I'm just playing with them.
1. Chapter 1

First chapter! It's short, sorry, but I'll put more in soon! Rated M for...probably a lot of slash later on.

John walked slowly up the stairs of Baker street, his limp unerringly apparent, carrying a bag of groceries. His phone vibrated, and beeped three times. Mycroft was texting him. Well, he'd have to wait. No way was John pulling out his phone and falling down the stairs trying to respond just because Mycroft was in a meeting.

He reached the top step, and made his way into the flat. Dumping his shopping on the counter, the doctor checked his phone.

"You need a new jumper. MH."

John sighed, and shook his head. He wasn't getting a new jumper. He wasn't wearing a new jumper, either. He wasn't wearing any jumper other than the one he'd worn the last time he saw Sherlock. The one he was wearing now.

"Not happening. Sod off. JW."

Mycroft didn't reply. He never really did. Only when John asked a question, or made a request. Other than that, he only ever began conversations.

It had been six months since Sherlock had jumped off that roof. Six months since he had told John he was a liar, and a cheat, and that nothing he'd ever said had been true, and jumped off the building. Six months since Sherlock had left John behind. Forever.

John put away the food he'd bought, and made tea. He poured two cups, as he always did, one for him, and one, out of habit, for Sherlock. He had never wanted to break the habit. He had never had any desire to. He had never cried for Sherlock, sobbed his heart out like his therapist said he should. He had just continued making two cups of tea, setting two places out for dinner, making enough food for two. He had gone on with his life exactly as it had been before, except that now he was empty inside. Sherlock was dead. He had no friend, no flat mate, no detective, no adventuring partner. He didn't have Sherlock. He did't have anything.

John took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. His heart thudded against his chest. His pulse got faster, until he stopped breathing completely. For a minute, John sat in his chair, silent as death, not moving, not breathing. Just sitting.

Then the panic attack passed, and oxygen flew into his lungs again. These attacks had become more and more frequent since the fall. The therapist had prescribed him medication, but John didn't need someone to prescribe him medication. He had access to all the pills he could ever want or need, working at the surgery. That didn't make it any more likely that he would take them. Sherlock would have expected him to stick to his morals, and who would want to disappoint Sherlock?

John glared at the alabaster tabletop. He felt weak. Stupid. Worthless. He hadn't associated with anyone since Sherlock. He hadn't even had a genuine conversation with Mrs. Hudson in several weeks. Mycroft was his only real connection to the world outside his work.

This was what being alone felt like. This was what the absolute,irrefutable loneliness that widows and people who'd lost children felt. John chuckled. Sherlock would probably have made some smart remark about his apparently self-centered feelings of pity.

He missed Sherlock. He missed literally everything about him. He missed the experiments, he missed the cold stare he'd get on days when Sherlock was in a bad mood, he missed Sherlock's undeniable inability to accept social structure.

John stood up. His leg ached, but he'd stopped caring. Walking over to the sofa, he massaged the back of his head. The doctor plopped down on the couch, and turned his body so that he faced the wall. He'd begun doing this a few weeks after the fall. One of the many, many things he remembered about Sherlock was his constant habit of sleeping on the couch, something John had never really understood. But now it didn't matter, because the only person there to sleep on the couch was him, and by damn he was going to do it.


	2. Chapter 2

At three o' clock in the morning, John heard a thump, and immediately woke up. Someone was in the flat. This was unacceptable. No-one was allowed in the flat other than the people he and Sherlock had allowed there previously. John slowly stood, as quietly as possible, and grabbed his cane. He heard shuffling from the hall, as of someone taking off a coat of some kind, and a sigh, as the intruder took in a deep breath, and then let it out. John slowly rounded the corner into the hall, and gasped as he was immediately engulfed in a flurry of arms and brown curls. His immediate response was to push forward with his cane, and abruptly he did so, subsequently punching his attacker hard in the face. The taller man fell back, and grabbed at his injured jaw. John took his opportunity then to swing a right hook up into the mans stomach, and twist him around until he was capable of trapping the other in a firm choke hold. This was accomplished in a matter of about 2.5 seconds. It was only then that he heard the quiet whimpers coming from his assailant.  
>"John. John, stop. John, I'm sorry." John let go, and shrank back, as the man he had just incapacitated fell to his knees, and slowly stood up. The doctor stepped back again, and fumbled for the light switch.<p>

White, fluorescent light flooded the hall, illuminating the face of the man John had just attempted to capture. The silky brown curls John knew so well were ruffled, the generally immaculate face was bleeding from the lip, and the high, arching cheekbones were stained with fresh, wet tears.  
>"I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry, please don't be angry with me any more." The man sobbed, stepping forward as though to touch John, but then stopping abruptly.<br>"Sherlock?" The shorter man was incredulous, stepping forward to run one hand slowly down the detective's face. Sherlock rushed forward to wrap John up in his arms, burying his head in the doctor's neck. John couldn't move to respond, only able to stand there as though in shock while Sherlock inhaled his shoulder.  
>"Sherlock?" John said again, still not really understanding what had just happened. Sherlock was here? But Sherlock was dead. Sherlock couldn't be here with him if he was dead.<br>"John? John, are you alright?" Concern dripped from every inch of Sherlock, and John felt something hot and wet on his face. The taller man straightened up, and looked down at the doctor, his hand coming up to cup the other's cheek. "John, don't cry. Please don't cry."

Suddenly it all became too much, and the older man sank to the floor, sobbing into his knees. Sherlock was here. Sherlock wasn't dead, he was here. Right in front of him. He felt long arms wrap around his torso, and a warm, wet cheek pressed up against the side of his face.  
>"John, it's okay. I'm here now, it's okay."<br>"D-dead. Dead." John stuttered, incapable of saying anything else.  
>"No, John. I'm here. I'm alive. I'm fine." Sherlock rubbed one hand in circles on John's back, and took the doctor's face in his other. John looked up into the clear blue eyes, and he found himself only able to think of one thing to say.<br>"Where were you?"

Sherlock didn't blink. He simply gathered John back up in his arms, and lifted him slightly off the ground, carrying him to the couch. The tall, lanky man laid the shorter on the cushions, and curled his long body around his friend's.

"Where were you?" Came the repeated whisper from Sherlock's chest.

"I'm sorry, John. I had to. I had to, or Moriarty would have killed you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I had to fake my death."

"So...lonely..." Came the heart-shattering reply.

"John, look at me. Please?" The doctor lifted his head. Sherlock looked down at him, and wiped the tears off of his face with the hand that had previously been on John's head. He smiled, and John's lightened ever so slightly.

"You're really here." The older man said, incredulously, the corner of his mouth beginning to tilt up into a small smile. But then it passed, and John looked up at Sherlock with a face filled with hurt. "You left me." He pulled away from Sherlock, and disentangled himself from the long limbs. "You disappeared. I thought you were dead. It's been six months." John stood up. "Six months, Sherlock!" He shouted at the top of his very, very agile lungs. "I've been running around, disheveled and upset like a bloody freaking idiot for six months!" Sherlock put his elbows on his knees, and allowed his head to sink into his hands. "You bastard! You god damned bastard! I _hate_ you!" John froze. Sherlock looked up. He made a strangled sort of choking sound, and John immediately regretted his words. They stood there, one of them looking down blank faced as the other stared back up with wet tears in his eyes.

"Sherlock..." Sherlock took a deep breath, looking back down at the floor, while John continued to pour over him with his eyes. After taking a moment to collect himself, the taller man spoke, without looking up.

"Do you hate me?" His voice sounded so lonely, so broken, that John could barely resist the urge to come back to him, and wrap himself up in the detective's long arms.

John stood stunned. The expression on Sherlock's face was so full of fear at what he would say that he couldn't begin to imagine causing the man any pain. The doctor knelt next to his detective, and lifted his hand, turning Sherlock's face to his. The clear blue eyes were searching, looking for any semblance of forgiveness in John's eyes.

"No, Sherlock." John sighed, pressing their foreheads together. "I don't hate you." The smaller man ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, attempting ot certify that he was really there.

Sherlock's shoulders relazed, and he let out a long, slow breath. H eloved John. He wanted to tell him, to somehow say all of the things he'd thought about John over the past six months. Things about missing john, loving John, kissing John...

Sherlock had though about that a lot. Married to his work, yes, but perhaps this could be considered an open marriage, or no marriage at all, if it meant he could feel how John's lips felt against his.

Johns fingers brushed Sherlock's ear, and he felt a warmth grow in the pit of his stomach. The had come down to cup the tall man's cheek, and Sherlock, not thinking, not knowing, not caring what John might think, leaned down and pressed a soft, slow kiss onto John's lips.

The sensation was like nothing Sherlock had ever felt before. John was warm, and wet from the tears, and Sherlock tatted salt when he pulled back, looking uncertainly at John's shocked face.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes, John?" The detective asked gently.

"You kissed me." Sherlock's heart fell. John hadn't wanted it. Of course not How could he? John was not gay. Sherlock had simply-

The thought was cut short by John's lips crashing firmly against his. Arms were abruptly wrapped around each others bodies, hands were suddenly entwined in hair, and Sherlock's stomach was filled once again with that deep, wonderful warmth. When their lips finally parted, they were both grinning, and Sherlock laughed slightly.

John pulled back, and lifted a hand to brush over the already forming bruise on Sherlock's eye.

"Sorry." He whispered. Sherlock smiled, a little lightheaded.

"That's quite alright, John."


End file.
